Best Piping Poems
T'was freezing cold and I struggled in the heat
I was pleased I'd put warm gloves on my feet
I shouldn't have been out on such a cold night
High in the sky was the sun and shining so bright.
Not far to walk home now just fifty odd miles
Minutes later I'd be home, my face full of smiles
My brother was with me and she felt the cold too
Shouldn't have worn shorts, her hands had turned blue.
Went into an ice cream parlour for some yummy ice cream
It was served piping hot and gave off clouds of steam
I fancied some cold soup and it was served up on a plate
And I used two left handed chopsticks, it tasted great.
Then my cell phone rang but the battery was flat
It was my wife who wanted me to buy her a cat
She said don't tell me which one, I want a surprise
But get one with four legs, a tail and green eyes.
Called to the pet shop and asked nicely for a pet
The man said sorry we've no live ones in yet
I've got two stuffed dead dogs or a puffa fish
If you don't want it as a pet it will make a tasty dish.
I got out my credit card and paid him with cash
He said don't handle the fish it will give you a rash
Me and my bro left the shop and went off on our way
I was so worn out, it had been an eventful day.
Written on 8th September 2021
For The Nonsense Rhyme Poetry Contest,
Sponsored By Charles Messini.
If finding good times is your wish
And poetry your favorite dish,
Then visit us. The soup is on!
It’s piping hot and never gone.
And with so much to see and do,
This place is hopping! Rabbit stew
Has got to be our specialty
Because we move so rapidly.
I recommend a cup of Joe.
To keep up here, you can’t move slow,
for this is such a lively group,
you won’t be seeing turtle soup!
Chorus:
So come on! Step outside your shell.
Learn all the rules and learn them well.
Of poems, we must have every kind.
So come inside and feed your mind!
No turtle soup, but plenty of
All kinds of soup you’re sure to love -
Like vegetable hot in the pot;
Of healthy soup we have a lot!
If psychedelic is your thing,
Try special mushroom with a zing!
There’s spicy enchilada too
If Latin passion flows through you.
Some soup is salty; some is sweet,
And many soups are filled with meat.
There’s chicken noodle for the soul.
I guarantee that you’ll get full.
Chorus:
So come on! Step outside your shell.
Learn all the rules and learn them well.
Of poems, we must have every kind.
So come inside and feed your mind!
Learn how to post, and don’t be shy.
Most poets love when you reply,
Especially if you read their work.
New friendships are an added perk!
New poems appear on lists. Beware!
They vanish soon into thin air.
So many contests to get in.
You’ll feel your head begin to spin.
To learn the ropes, just ask around.
Quick! Like a bunny, leave the ground.
Hop to it! Ready, set, now GO.
Remember turtles are too slow……
Chorus:
So come on! Step outside your shell.
Learn all the rules and learn them well.
Of poems, we must have every kind.
So come inside and feed your mind!
'for Cindi Rockwell's "My Poetry Soup Recipe Contest"
Like the pompous pied piper leading the way,
chirping his tune of a dawning new day,
frustrations were championed, oh how we followed,
the ego stuffed shirt of a suit cold and hollow.
From the top of the hill, he showed us the view,
convincing our eyes it was harshly askew.
Nearing the cliffs as if caught in a spell,
he fed us like lambs from his poisonous well.
Touting sweet taste of his truth well embittered,
ignoring the signs of nonsensical twitter,
rot with the smell of the nations decay,
we drank from his cup of a water so gray.
Watching and waiting for gifts of his gruel,
the masses assured we were not made a fool,
his promise of greatness was all we could see,
with great expectations of how it would be.
There's no turning back once we swore the man in,
believing bright futures were soon to begin,
blinding frustration gave evil its day
for the pompous pied piper to lead us astray.
He led us to thinking, all driven by fear,
then gave his directives so cryptically clear,
stripping the values by which we would stand
before the American dream had been banned.
Addicted to all the attention and glory,
swiftly he moved to remain the top story,
insisting on walls made of concrete and steel
built by the anger and hate we should feel.
Then some were shaken, disrupting his spell
and found he was stealing our Liberty Bell.
The fog began lifting and soon we would see
the piper exposed as the fraud he would be.
Time has a way, proven over again,
of playing its imminent part.
The shedding of light upon every mans soul,
exposing his darkness of heart.
No longer seduced by the piping we hear,
choosing to see through the veil,
Democracy once again fights to survive,
let us all pray we prevail!
-Jeannie Cronin
Sitting on the Fence at Twilight
When the sun waved good-bye in the afternoon,
I’d say hello to the smiling Man in the Moon.
Perching on our gray concrete fence,
I’d swing my brown legs to a happy cadence.
From my solid fortress, I could see
a daily circus of human activity.
On a single bicycle rode the Fabros, a family of four;
how they all fit, it was a mystery to be sure.
The street vendor, old Papito, would hawk his treats;
oh! those warm, sticky, honey buns and tamarind sweets.
Sashaying in her tight-fitting skirt of tomato-red,
Cousin Clarita balanced a green basket on her turbaned head.
Then came buxom Aunt Alfreda huffing and puffing by,
to give me a piping hot, home-made, savory meat pie.
I’d blow on it to cool it off first, just
before biting into the flaky, buttery crust.
As day soon faded into hues of twilight,
I’d spy the occasional shiny satellite,
a tiny, silver snail slowly revolving in the sky,
moving so silently above, way up high.
For a child of seven, this was such a wondrous time…
right until the old town clock chimed nine.
Then Mama would ring her bell calling me inside,
and I’d leave the stars still twinkling outside.
04-24-2018
Contest: An Early Childhood Memory
Sponsor: Line Gauthier
Placement: 3rd
A Christmas dinner that can’t be beat
Here is the menu of what we’ll eat
Mashed potatoes whipped smooth and fluffy
Green bean casserole; nice and crunchy
Pickles and olives on a perfect relish tray
Cranberry delight that’s been chilling all day
Sweet potatoes such tasty treats
Hot rolls steaming both white and wheat
Homemade honey butter and strawberry jam
A gorgeous honey glazed Christmas ham
Turkey and noodles are piping hot
A fuzzy naval salad; I almost forgot
A slow roasted turkey golden brown
And broccoli rice casserole; pass it around
For dessert we’ve a variety of tasty treats
Tons of scrumptious goodies to eat
Chocolate chip cookies and brownies so sweet
Four kinds of pies including minced meat
It’s all there so fill up your plate
I’m getting mine, I can hardly wait
As the pastel moon rises across the midnight blue
a lone wolf’s dark silhouette appears into view
his boast is known from Cowboy to prairie dog
fore this is the night chill that turns to morning fog
the early dawn is thawed by a piping hot cup o’ Joe
No time to waste, just a few days brings first snow
Such is the Cowboy’s life on the cattle drive
NO WINTER THIS YEAR! NO NONE AT ALL!
no winter this year, no! none at all!
the ducks dilly dally, honeybees in the fall!
my dry cleaners said "no need for your coat!
I'll get to it when, I dock my sailboat!"
anthills getting bigger, their soldiers don't hurry!
I checked the forecast, no chance of a flurry!
the blueberry tea, I've been served alfresco,
stays quite piping hot! thank you Ernesto!
my finest snow angel, about to appear,
must take a raincheck! with Santa's Reindeer!
the heavens above, must surely have reasons,
postponing ice fishing, and blurring the seasons!
I'll wait two more weeks, before I declare!
"remove thin-ice signs! steep drop-off beware!"
It's the comfy, over-sized sweater
that will never judge
the soft and cozy blanket
that will never count the fudge
The piping cup of cocoa
warm tendrils embracing your nose
the book of pure enjoyment
you just can't seem to close
it's strawberries and cream
a rich chocolate shake
a rootbeer float with whipped cream
the icing on the cake
A friend is like a circle
where no darkness can seep in
for in the radius of their smile
love's light is bright within.
TDR 3-28-15
Baby doesn't like the 'peases'.
She spits them out, as she pleases.
I still have that childish vice
But spitting peas isn't nice.
Avoiding them is hard to do.
They're in the pot pie and the stew.
So, I pick them out one by one
But pea-picking is not fun.
Give me a break. I cannot take
To even smell them on the make.
Cold in salad or piping hot,
Hold the peas. Peas porridge, not!
January 11, 2018
I can think of no better contentment that can be had,
Lounging in my robe and slippers comfortably clad,
Than relaxing by the hearth in my favorite chair,
Gazing at the dancing flames, ah, nothing can compare!
A winter storm rages outside piling up drifts of crystal snow.
I checked the thermometer and it read twenty degrees below!
But what care I as we settle in for an evening of respite,
Sipping Berringers White Zinfandel on this Holy winter's night!
We reminisce about the past and things for which we aspire,
Dreamily watching the glowing embers of the dying fire.
With music softly playing and the lights turned down low,
I light my pipe, savoring the aroma and its mellow glow!
I make room for dear old Simba as he curls up on my lap,
Purring contentedly and taking his usual evening nap.
My spouse prepares a bowl of piping hot popcorn for a treat.
I couldn't ask for anything more to make the evening complete!
In the autumn of my life, such simple times I truly treasure.
With my love by my side, I'm satisfied beyond all measure!
The grandfather clock measures time in its inexorable way.
Oh, that time would stand still that I could forever relish this day!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
Placed No. 2 in Linda-Marie's "Holiday Hearth" Contest - November 2011
I sat on the floor of the pavement,
Sun shining on my face.
It had been ages since I saw the sun.
It always evoked a feeling of pure pleasure,
Though the one I always remember
It was the rising of the sun from behind purple hills.
There was so much beauty in the world.
But not for me. Everybody forsook me.
People came, and people went. Neglected by all.
It was never a good morning for me.
Someone gave me a paper plate with something on it.
I knew there was nothing but mud on it.
I put it on the ground and heard the laughter
Of some youths who had dared.
I said nothing but felt the rumbling in my stomach.
I had not eaten the day before, and I felt weak.
Then another plate came—a piping hot dog.
At last, someone remembered. I ate it slowly.
It was all covered with chilli that was too hot to taste.
I was hungry and ate it slowly, trying unsuccessfully
Remove the chilli and hope for some water.
But no one offered.
Nothing else happened that day till I felt the sunset.
Some policemen roughly told me to go home to my wife.
But did I have a home? Did I have a wife?
Both had long disappeared when I lost my sight.
I hobbled to a lonely low bridge, tapping my white stick
And rested there forsaken by all until the next morn.
Note: This did happen, but not to me.
In the skies over Inverness
is light-play on an annual quest
and pipers in kilts come to play along
with the aurora’s lovely song.
Moonbeams shy in aurora’s light
give way to flowing waves so bright.
Cosmic charged particles from the sun
are sure to leave no coloring undone.
Echoes of piped tunes will dance
while colors in sky do entrance;
as high above the highland lakes
the sky performs a waltz of grace.
3-13-2021
Scotland - One Rule Poetry Contest
Julia Ward
I hammered some words
Out from the quarry of my brain
They fell around in shards;
Some like boulders,
Some like rocks and rubble
I picked them up one by one.
Block on block, I piled them up
Thinking I could build a ‘pleasure dome’
But,
When it was time for the workman
To marvel over the beauty and wonder
Of his dream creation
His masonry tumbled down
Like sand castles built
By little hands on sea strands
Or dunes of quicksand sliding down
I have lost count of the times,
This has happened before.
Now I stay resigned,
Amid a heap of debris
Is there any use feeling remorse?
When Rome was burning,
Like Nero fiddling on his harp,
I sit on this pile of wreck
Piping my thoughts away
In the cusp between victory and defeat
Exacting as much ecstasy as I can
Before the truth looms large
In all its stark nakedness!
____________________________________
May.14.2022
A Brian Strand Premiere Choice Poetry Contest
The Salon of Forbidden Ideas
is a place where the free-thinkers go
to express their unsanctioned opinions
and explore what they aren't meant to know...
At twilight, they slip through the shadows
of the alley 'twixt Far-Left and Right,
wearing black masks and cloaks of red satin,
bearing lanterns of unfiltered light.
The door to the salon is fastened
with various fashions of locks---
each one with a key and engraving
of the name of a theory or hoax.
For the one with the keys to unlock them
there awaits a most pleasant reception:
A tea in an elegant parlor
with others so-freed from deception.
Over salvers of tea cakes and lokum,
and samovars piping with steam,
they indulge in uncensored discussions
(like the cats who have gotten the cream).
The portaits of Nietzsche and Darwin,
and of Freud and Marcuse and Marx,
gaze down with intense indignation
as the fireplace feasts on their works.
Engraved on the mantle is FREEDOM,
and the roar of the flames, "Liberation!",
and the parlor is bright with the fireglow
from the canon of indoctrination.
Outside, in the mist and the darkness,
the justice wolves prowl on patrol---
sniffing fiercely for dissident skeptics
in their bloodthirsty lust for control.
The tea in the parlor continues---
as the wolves run the alleys in vain---
til the night-shadow fades into sunrise
and the guests don their masks once again.
Do you know the way to the Salon?
Do you have the keys to its door?
Simply follow the compass of Conscience,
and the pull of your heart to know more.
The alley is narrow and lonely;
you might lose your family or friends,
your religion or good reputation
before you arrive at its end...
But if you are yearning for freedom,
and the knowledge of truth is your goal,
there's an ear for your voice at the Salon,
and refreshment and peace for your soul.
Sunday roast
A meal I loved
for some time not partaken
When Ma was here
Well ~ oh my dear
Served on the dot at one o’clock
And woe betide if we were late
it would be on the table
upon our plate
and steaming hot
Whether we were there or not
Nowadays it’s just for one
Has somehow lost appeal
To sit alone now on my own
I really don’t enjoy
Those crispy roasted spuds
with golden Yorkshire puds
buttered carrots ~ roasted parsnips
on my plate roast leg of lamb
a generous dollop of minty sauce
with thick meaty gravy piping hot
Three cheers for the cook
Three cheers for the host
I can almost taste it ~ I can almost smell it
Ma always cooked the best Sunday roast
Now my grandson is a vegan
his girlfriend she is too
my granddaughter a veggie
oh what am I to do
I cannot beat them
so I will join them
nut roast now my Sunday roast
but I'm still yearning for the taste
of Ma’s on the dot at one o'clock
her Sunday roasts delectable
each mouthful unforgettable...
Written 4 July 2021
Contest A BRIAN STRAND JULY 4
Sponsor Brian Strand
FIRST PLACE